


Drowning in Your Eyes

by LineSofie



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, post boatsex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-12-21 08:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11940309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LineSofie/pseuds/LineSofie
Summary: "He looks at her, an unreadable expression on his face, as she opens the door. The air around them changes; it feels charged with a sudden burning fire. Though she can’t tell what thoughts run through his mind as he watches her, one thing is perfectly clear to her. He wants her just as much as she wants him, and he is done fighting it."





	1. At Sea

She looks through the windows of her cabin, watching the waves as they rise and fall with the ship. The darkness out there is looming, and it almost feels like it’s closing in on her. Her mind travels north of the wall, seeing the Night King and all of the dead men clearly in her mind as if it was yesterday. She sees Viserion too, watching over and over as he bursts into flames and crashes into his watery grave. She can still hear his pained screeching, hear his brothers’ wails. Her heart feels heavy with grief. Oh how she misses him. 

To everyone else her dragons are beasts, terrifying creatures to be feared. But to her, they’re so much more. She held them when they were not much bigger than her hand. She carried them on her shoulder, fed them from her palms. She trained them, as much as dragons can be trained. She loved them, ran her hands over their scaly skins as their heads rested in her lap, as a mother might do to soothe her child. 

They are her children, and they are the only ones she will ever have. She thinks of Jon’s words in the dragonpit. Has it occurred to you that she might not be a reliable source of information? 

She wants to believe him, wants to believe that one day she might feel her womb quicken again as she had with Rhaego. She wants to believe she will hold a child in her arms, one she can call her own, but her heart won’t let her. 

If what he said is true, if she isn’t barren, would she not have conceived during her time with Daario Naharis? Even then, even when she knew she didn’t love the man, and that bearing a child from that union would not be advisable, she used to wish it. 

No, she has to accept her fate. She will forever be the mother of dragons. She wishes Jon Snow would do the same. Though it is yet left unspoken, she knows that he cares for her, just as she has grown to care for him. She needs him to understand that she won’t be able to give him children. No matter his hopeful words, it won’t change what is. She wants him, by the gods, she does, but she can’t bear the thought of disappointing him when he will inevitably realize that the witch was right. 

Three soft knocks on her door pulls her from her string of thoughts. She wonders briefly who would come to her this late, but she knows who she hopes to see. 

He looks at her, an unreadable expression on his face, as she opens the door. The air around them changes; it feels charged with a sudden burning fire. Though she can’t tell what thoughts run through his mind as he watches her, one thing is perfectly clear to her. He wants her just as much as she wants him, and he is done fighting it. 

The door is barely closed behind him when his lips attack hers. She responds instantly, tasting his lips, breathing him in. She opens her mouth, allowing him inside and moans as he does. 

His hands are framing her face as his lips move with hers. Her own arms snake around his waist, her fingers clinging to the fur of his coat, pulling him impossibly closer. 

They pull away briefly, catching their breaths as their eyes meet. And then his lips are on her jaw, moving down towards her neck, sucking on a spot below her jaw that makes her gasp. She can almost feel his smile on her skin at her reaction and she pulls him away, only to assault his mouth with hers again. 

The air is growing steadily warmer and they are wearing far too much clothing for her liking, him especially. What is it with northmen and their need to wear so many layers? 

She makes an attempt at removing his coat but with her mouth preoccupied it’s not an easy task. He chuckles against her lips, the sound sending vibrations through her body and she feels it between her legs. She is already almost throbbing with need and they still haven’t managed to get his damned coat off. 

He finally removes it himself, his fingers making quick work of it. His lips are back on hers briefly before he continues working on his too many clothes. He does this a few times until finally his chest is bare in front of her. 

It’s not the first time she’s seen them, and yet the scars on his muscled chest still makes her heart hurt and a fiery anger burn inside her. She wants to kill those who would ever harm this man, the man she has found herself falling for beyond reason. 

As if sensing her sudden anger, her lifts her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes, reminding her that he is here, he is breathing and the men who hurt him is not. 

Her fingers gingerly reaches out for him, touching his chest for the first time. Touching the rough skin of his scars. Her hand stills on the one over his heart, her palm lying flat against it as she feels his heart pounding wildly under it. He is really here, right in front of her. 

He puts his own hand on top of hers and she meets his dark eyes again. No words are spoken, and yet a lot of things are said. 

He reaches up and gently tucks a stray hair behind her ear before kissing her again. It’s not as passionate and desperate this time, but this kiss feels more powerful. It’s tender and loving and it’s more than she thought she could ever have. 

He takes a step forward, forcing her to take a step back, and she finds herself pressed against the door. His hand moves behind her neck and his tongue caresses her bottom lip, silently asking for permission to enter. 

She grants it and pulls him closer yet again. The need is growing stronger with every passing minute, the throbbing between her legs becoming slowly unbearable. Her hips meet his in a desperate search for friction. His does the same and soon they are working up a rhythm of movement. It feels good, better than good, and yet it isn’t enough. 

Suddenly he stops, and she groans into his mouth at the loss of sensation. He doesn’t give her enough time to complain as his hand is on her core, cupping her through her dress without warning. He massages her and while it still isn’t enough, she can’t stop herself as she grinds herself into his hand, desperate for more. Her eyes are squeezed shut, focusing on the pleasure he builds as he moves. 

And then, just as she is working up a pace, gasps and moans escaping her lips without permission, his hand is gone again. 

“Please,” she whispers. Her eyes open and meet his. His eyes are impossibly darker with lust, and she can feel his growing hardness pressing against her thigh. 

She reaches down to touch him through his breeches but he removes her hand before she can. She’s searching his eyes for any indication that he has changed his mind, but she only finds a look of mischief and she swallows hard. 

He has more success helping her out of her clothes than she had with his and quickly she is completely bare for him. His eyes moves over her body as if memorizing each and every curve and mark on her skin. 

Their lips meet again and his hand cups her breast, his thumb stroking her perked nipple. He gives the other breast the same attention and then his mouth is gone from hers. She feels his hot breath over her breast as his mouth works on them. It feels so good but she finds herself wishing his mouth was somewhere else. 

As if reading her mind, his mouth travels lower as he kneels in front of her, leaving a trail of wet kisses over her navel until it’s right where she needs it the most. His tongue licks between her lips, right at her entrance and then his thumb finds her nub, making her body twitch in surprise over the sudden sensation. 

She feels the pleasure build and she’s getting closer to her peak, and then he stops again, and she has to wonder if he is trying to torture her deliberately. If he is, he is succeeding. 

His thumb keeps moving over her nub and she is gasping for air when his two fingers replace his mouth, pumping into her. 

She knows, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she shouldn’t make too much noise and risk the entire ship knowing what their Queen and the King in the North are doing, but she can’t stop the moans if she tried. 

Her inner walls contract against his fingers as he sends her over the edge and she opens her eyes to find his staring up at her. He pulls his fingers out of her and brings them to his lips, licking her essence from them. It’s enough to send a shiver up her spine and she is far from done with him. 

Back on his feet, their lips find each other again and she can taste herself on them. It makes her walls start throbbing again, needing more. Needing him. 

He is still wearing his damn breeches so she reaches down to help him rid himself of them. This time he doesn’t stop her. Once free, her fingers wrap around his shaft, her thumb carefully grazing the tip and gives him a few pumps. He is already impossibly hard in her hand and if his groans are anything to go by, he won’t last long. And she thinks, neither will she. 

“The bed,” he moans and she finally pulls her hand away. He picks her up with ease and carries her to the edge before gently setting her down. 

They lay side by side, their lips once again meeting, taking their time, exploring each other’s bodies with their hands. 

It could be five minutes or an hour, she isn’t entirely sure, but he turns her over, her back on the soft mattress with him on top. He is holding his weight off her but his skin is pressed closely to hers, their bodies tangled into one. 

He reaches down and aligns himself with her entrance and suddenly he’s inside of her, filling her. She thinks how she has missed this feeling, and somehow, at the same time, it’s a completely new sensation to her. Jon isn’t just holding her, moving with her; it feels like he is under her skin. As if he is a part of her and she can’t tell where she ends and he begins. 

She digs her heels into his perfect cheeks (she is definitely going to give them more attention later), desperate for more. She clings to him, her arms wrapped around his broad torso, her fingers caressing everything within reach as he hits that sweet spot inside her that has her moaning into his mouth. 

His almost silent growl in response sends a shiver up her spine and her hips twitch, meeting his in another deep thrust. She feels herself getting closer to the edge again, and yet she doesn’t want it to end. She could spend eternity her in this bed with this man and she’d be content. The whole world has disappeared and no one else matters. 

And then she reaches her peak, her inner walls clenching around Jon. He gives a few more shallow thrusts, leaving her almost whimpering, before he spills himself inside her. 

Neither of them move for a moment. Time is standing still as their eyes lock and their chests heave for air. Hearts are pounding in unison and then he smiles at her and she feels like her heart could explode. She smiles back and presses her lips to his again. 

For so many weeks now, so many lonely nights in her private chambers at Dragonstone, she’s wondered what those lips would taste like. How it would feel to rake her hands through his dark curls, and now it’s no longer just a dream. 

One hand rests on his shoulder, feeling the strong muscle underneath, while the other reaches up to rest on his cheek. He is beautiful like this, she thinks, and wishes she could imprint it on her mind forever. 

He watches her, a look of awe and love in his eyes and she tries to convey the same to him. She’s never been good with words, but somehow, with Jon, that doesn’t seem to matter. He understands her in a way that no one else ever had. 

She can’t help the quiet hiss as he finally pulls his softening cock out of her. He carefully studies her face to make sure she is alright and she gives him a smile, the soreness slowly ebbing away. 

He lays next to her, his arms wrapping around her, giving her a sense of comfort and safety that she hadn’t realized she craved. She feels the fatigue as the exertions of the day set in, and as he kisses her temple she falls asleep with a feeling of genuine happiness the she hasn’t felt since her childhood in Braavos. 

And if she dreams of a small child with eyes as dark as his father's and blonde curls like hers, she isn’t going to tell anyone.


	2. You and I

The sound of seagulls screeching as they circle the ship in the fresh morning air is what wakes her. Instantly she feels the warmth of the firm body that’s pressed against her back. The events of the previous night come back to her and it brings a smile to her lips to think about. 

She feels the gentle caress of his fingers trailing the skin of her arm. It tickles but she can’t pull away. 

Minutes pass, or maybe hours, as neither speaks but revels in the comfort of the other’s company. It makes her wish that she could freeze this moment and save it forever. 

Finally, she turns carefully in his arms, trying not to jostle him as she does. The smile he gives her as their eyes meet seems like it should melt her on the spot. She returns the smile, and finds herself wondering when the last time was that she felt this content. 

Lips meet in a sweet kiss and it seems like it’s all something that should be happening to someone else. Happiness like this isn’t something Kings and Queens can afford. It’s what Viserys always told her. Happiness is for the common man, not royals. 

And yet here they are, it’s happening to them and it’s real. 

He looks almost innocent like this. Gone is the worry that’s perpetually clear in his eyes as if he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. His forehead is no longer creased in a frown. In here, like this, he’s no longer the King in the North, no longer the bastard of Winterfell and she’s no Queen. He’s simply Jon and she’s simply Daenerys. 

Reaching up, she places a gentle hand on his cheek, her thumb caressing the skin there, her eyes locked to his. She can’t look away, and yet it feels too intruding, as if he can see right through her. 

Her hand moves, as if on its own accord, and soon it’s in his hair, raking through the curls. She likes his hair like this, flowing free, almost inviting her fingers to roam through it. 

His hardness press against her thigh and as she reaches down to touch him, she watches his face heat up. 

Wrapping her fingers around his length she gives him a few pumps, making him fully erect. He grunts into her hair, and pride fills her of doing it to him. She lets go of him and pushes on his shoulders so she’s on top of him. 

Their lips meet again, this time with more fervor. She feels the wetness between her thighs, ready for him already, but she wants to take her time first. She wants him to feel as good as he made her feel the previous night. 

Breaking from his, her mouth moves lower, pressing wet kisses to his skin. When she gets to the scars on his chest she hears him suck in a breath. Her eyes meet his for a moment before she leans down and tenderly kisses each of the scars, starting with the one over his heart. 

She kisses down his firm stomach and soon her face is right by his shaft. She ignores it, kissing the skin of his inner thighs, moving closer. He’s groaning already, almost as if the wait is painful so she decides to be merciful. 

Her fingers wrap around him as she lets her tongue glide along his length. His hips twitch in anticipation and she looks up, meeting his gaze. His eyes are dark, the pupils dilated and he looks at her almost in wonder and awe. It fills her with warmth and she almost abandons her task just so she can kiss those lips again. 

Finally, she takes the tip of him into her mouth, her hand still holding him, rubbing along the part her mouth doesn’t reach. She watches as his face as she works on him, his face flushed as he pants. 

He squirms under her and his hands finds her hair, pulling it only slightly. She’s throbbing between her legs, feeling the need for him to fill her like she feels the need to breathe. 

When she breaks away from him, he moans, desperate for release. She moves she’s sitting by his hips, her entrance right next to his length. She grinds against him, extending his torture as he had hers. 

He growls, his voice rough, “please, Dany, I need-” 

His sentence is left unfinished as she finally seats herself on him, taking him deep inside. He pulls her down, attacking her mouth with his as they move. It’s faster and wilder this time, both needing relief. 

They fall over the edge together, the other’s name falling from their lips as they do. 

Afterwards they lie in a tangled mess, limbs intertwined, wanting to stay as close as possible. 

“You called me Dany,” she realizes. It hadn’t registered really at the time, too caught up in the pleasure of feeling him inside her again. 

He meets her eyes; an apologetic look on his face. “I’m sorry, it slipped. It won’t happen again,” he promises. She should be happy, shouldn’t she? That he acknowledges his mistake, that he gives her his word. But somehow, she just feels a sense disappointment. 

“No,” she pauses, “I’ve come to like hearing you say it,” she admits. 

The first time he’d said it, on the boat from Eastwatch, it had taken her by surprise. She was reminded of her brother, memories she’d rather leave behind in the past. But Jon is different. Viserys used it to manipulate, used it to control her. When the name falls from Jon’s lips it’s meant as an endearment. He’s not saying it to any gain of his own, only because he cares for her. 

She kisses him again, wanting to wipe the guilty expression from his face. And then her stomach growls, complaining about the lack of sustenance after their nightly activities. 

They begrudgingly part ways then, Jon leaving to his cabin to get dressed. 

She pulls a robe over her naked body and opens the door, allowing Missandei to enter. Daenerys thinks that she’s likely been waiting in the hall until she was needed, and if there was any doubt left, the knowing smile she gives her wipes it away. 

“It seems Lord Snow is up early,” the translator comments as she starts to untangle Daenerys’ many braids. 

The queen feels her face heat up and her pale skin turns pink. 

When she was with Daario, she found no discomfort in telling Missandei about what it was like being with him, but now, with Jon, she finds she wants to keep the memory to herself. 

“Yes, it seems he is,” she simply replies and meets her friend’s eyes in the mirror. 

There’s silence after that, as Missandei works on her hair, creating a new complex system of braids. 

Tyrion and Jon are already at the table when she joins them. Jon looks uncomfortable and her Hand looks smug. 

“Ah, Your Grace, I do hope you slept well,” he says, too cheerfully, and she knows something is coming. 

“I did, thank you, Lord Tyrion. You as well, I hope,” she replies as she very carefully does not look at Jon at all. 

“Unfortunately, the ship was a little too rocky in the night for my taste,” he responds. Hidden underneath his words is a crude joke, telling her that he knows what they did. 

She decides not to answer, refusing to entertain him. 

“I have a feeling I won’t be getting much sleep for a while, we are stuck here on this ship for a month after all.” 

Again, he receives no reply, both decidedly ignoring him as they break their fast in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the first, but I figured this was a good place to cut it. I have several ideas for other chapters, at least two more which I will hopefully be able to write and upload soon. 
> 
> I saw a post on reddit where someone had calculated how long time it would actually take for them to get to Winterfell and apparently it's 30-45 days. I just went with a month.
> 
> Also shoutout to MissKitten for discussing this story with me and sparking ideas for it, thank you!


	3. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments, I really appreciate them. It definitely helps motivate me to write more. 
> 
> Here's the third chapter, I hope you enjoy!

The days drags on, becoming night, giving away to a new day. It’s hard to tell exactly how many days they’ve travelled before they finally see their destination on the horizon. 

Ever since that first night after they departed from Dragonstone, Jon has come to see her as everyone else have settled for the night. Most nights they shed their clothes, exploring each other, moving in synchronicity until they are spent and fall asleep in a tight embrace. Other nights they simply lay in bed, watching the early hours of the night pass by as they talk. 

The young queen stands on the deck of the ship, watching as the bow creates a path through the water. Waves ripple along the side of the vessel. The water stretches out before her, seemingly endless and yet she knows their destination is just beyond the horizon. 

There’s a calmness to it, and it feels as if they could be all alone in the world out here. Out here there’s no Iron Throne, no Cersei and no Army of the Dead. Out here that world doesn’t exist. 

Drogon and Rhaegal screech in the air above her, circling the ship, as if protecting it from any who would dare harm them. At times, they disappear into the clouds, but they always return to her. 

It still sparks a pain in her heart whenever she sees the two dragons flying together. That’s when it’s most obvious that one of them is missing. 

She hears footsteps behind her and turns her head slightly. Jon appears at her side and like her, his gaze is lifted to the sky, watching her children. 

“How does one manage to get three dragons?” 

He looks to her but she can’t meet his eyes, her gaze focused straight ahead. 

“I got them as a wedding present,” she explains. “They were only eggs then, petrified, but they hatched after my husband died.” She barely manages to keep her voice from shaking.  

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” 

She finally meets his eyes. “No, it’s alright.” 

There’s a moment of silence between them, until she finds the strength to keep talking. 

“They were so little then, the size of newborn babes. Drogon was always the largest. He was the first who learned how to breathe fire. He has saved me more times than I can count.”

There’s another pause. “I named him after my husband, Drogo. Sometimes I think of what he would say about them. My dragons.” 

“Rhaegal is the most intelligent one of them. He has the same temper as Drogon does.” 

She swallows. “Drogon killed a little girl, back in Meereen. I had to lock them up, but we couldn’t find Drogon. I don’t think Rhaegal has ever forgiven me for it. I can still hear his cries when he realized I betrayed them.” 

Tears well in her eyes then, clouding her vision. Jon takes her hand, giving it a light squeeze. It gives her strength to continue with an unsteady voice. 

“Viserion was always the sweetest one. He was kind to everyone, not aggressive like his brothers can be. He loved it when people would pet him.” 

“I’m so sorry, Dany,” Jon tells her, holding her gaze. She musters a small smile. 

“I miss him.” 

“I know you do.” 

They don’t speak for a while, her eyes once again following her two remaining dragons as they fly overhead. Jon’s gloved hand is still holding hers, his thumb caressing the back of it. 

When she finally calms, she looks back at Jon. 

“Will you tell me about your family?” she asks, wanting to know what shaped Jon into the man she loves. 

He wears a proud smile as he tells her about his father, Lord Eddard Stark. He tells of the stories he heard as he was growing up, about what an honorable man he was. It’s difficult to compare it to the stories Viserys always told her. She was always led to believe that Lord Stark had supported the Usurper’s decision to send assassins after a young boy and his newborn sister. The man Jon describes doesn't seem like a man who would allow that. 

She thinks perhaps, if things were different, she would have liked to meet him. 

He tells her about his brothers and sisters. She listens to stories of him and Robb, all the mischief they would get into; stories of Sansa, the beautiful girl who grew up too soon and grew stronger with it. She can’t help but notice several similarities between herself and the Lady of Winterfell. He gets trapped in his head for a moment, his eyes pained as he thinks of his fallen brothers. 

“And your youngest sister, what was her name?” She asks in an attempt to guide him out of that dark place. 

His face lights up almost instantaneously, the demons wiped away. 

“Arya. She was always so little, but stubborn. Lady Stark would have her sit with the other girls, doing embroidery all day, but Arya wouldn’t have it. Whenever she got the chance, she’d come watch us sword practicing. She wanted to train as well, but Lady Stark forbade it.” 

It’s the way he speaks about her that tells her he always had a weak spot for her. There’s a smile on his face again and a light in his eyes. 

A bubble of laughter falls from his lips and he recounts a story of him catching Arya practicing with a wooden sword when no one was watching. She had begged him to teach her and he had hesitated before leading her to the stables, finding a hidden place where Lady Stark wouldn’t catch them.

“She was a fast learner. So determined to be more than just a fine lady.”

He pauses for a moment. “Father caught us of course, but he didn’t say anything. He just smiled and walked away.” 

“It sounds like you had a great relationship with her,” she notes. 

He nods, “I did. I’ve missed her. When no one had heard from her after father was killed, I thought she must have died too.” 

This time she’s holding his hands in both of hers. “But she didn’t,” she reminds him before he can retreat into his head again. 

He gives her a small smile. “No, she didn’t. She’s a Stark, and Starks are hard to kill.”  


	4. Winterfell

The early morning air is brisk and cold as the ship docks at White Harbor. Despite her thick winter coat, it sends a child a deep chill through her. Her breath is visible upon exhaling and she knows they must go further north still. 

The harbor bustles with life around them, men working to unload the ships. It’s so unlike the solidarity she felt while sailing the Narrow Sea. It’s almost comforting, to see how life carries on, despite the threat that looms over them. 

A carriage waits to take them to Winterfell by the Kingsroad. She objected to this part, assuring her council that she was very capable on a horse by herself, but this was the compromise she agreed to. Less of a chance to get hit by an arrow from an unsupporting Northman this way. 

It takes them another week to get to Winterfell, and her body is complaining greatly from being stuck in a rocky carriage. Finally, the towers appear over the hills. 

Daenerys isn’t entirely sure what she expected when she imagined Winterfell in her mind. The old castle is grand and awe-inspiring. The towers are not as tall and the castle not as large as Dragonstone, but it doesn’t feel as cold and gloomy as people told her it would. Unlike Dragonstone, it feels like a home. 

As the carriage passes through the gates of the castle, a sense of dread washes over her. How will the people of Winterfell react to the foreign queen? Will they riot against a Targaryen coming into their home? 

She steps out, feet hitting the stony surface with grace. Her eyes scan her surroundings, men and women staring at her as if she is an exotic animal to behold. Some look at her with curiosity in their eyes, others with resentment. 

It seems everyone stopped whatever tasks they were doing, just to study their new guests. Whispers surround her as they gossip. She can’t blame them; her silver hair and purple eyes don’t exactly blend in here in the north. Or anywhere really. Being the last of her family, those traits will undoubtedly die with her. 

Her eyes finally land on Jon. He embraces a young girl tightly in his arms. They exchange words but she is standing too far away to tell what they are. The girl is short with dark brown hair, and a thin sword at her side. She must be Arya. 

Jon’s face has completely changed, showing unguarded happiness. It brings a smile to her lips to watch. 

Next to them is another girl, taller, and with red hair. She is quite beautiful, watching her siblings with matching delight. Lady Sansa, Daenerys assumes. 

“Arya, Sansa, I would like you to meet the Queen, Daenerys Targaryen.” 

At Jon’s words, she walks over to them. “Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

Sansa smiles graciously, “Your Grace.” 

She can’t quite read what Arya thinks of her by her expression, so it when she speaks, it takes her aback. 

“So, you’re the Queen that made my brother betray the North when he bent the knee.” 

It makes her falter, taking a moment to find her words. Beside her, Jon says Arya’s name. It’s a warning, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect on the girl. 

“I haven’t come here to take the North from you, only to aide in the coming war,” she replies, her voice steady, meaning every word. 

Arya seems to study her for a moment, considering her answer until she finally seems to accept it. There’s a smug smile on her face. 

“I can see why he has fallen for you.” 

Neither she nor Jon humors her with a response to that. Instead Jon excuses them from the group, explaining that they have had to travel for quite some time and need to rest. 

She follows him up a flight of stairs and inside the castle. They walk in silence for minute before he stops in front of a door. The unsullied carrying her trunks follows them into the chamber. 

It’s smaller than her chambers at Dragonstone of course, but much bigger than the tents she slept in while she lived with the Dothraki. The cold stone walls do nothing to liven up the room, but a fire already cackles in the fireplace, spreading warmth. The bed is large enough to fit two people and even simply looking at the furs makes her want to fall into them, letting them swallow her. She craves a real bed after more than a month of travelling. 

The soldiers finally leave and she and Jon are alone. 

“It’s beautiful here,” she tells him, not caring for the silence between them. 

“Aye. It’s not as grand as Dragonstone, but it’s home,” he tells her and there’s a hint of vulnerability to it. She remembers then that before he was king, he was a member of the Night’s Watch and he probably never expected to call Winterfell his home again. 

“Perhaps not in size,” she replies and it’s left at that. 

After another moment of silence, Jon clears his throat.  
“I... uh... I should let you rest, it’s been a long road.” He nods toward the bed. 

“Or you could stay with me,” she says, not missing a beat. He grins in return, one of the rare genuine ones. 

“I wish. But I ought to speak with my brother and sisters. I will see you at the feast tonight?” 

He says the last part as a question, almost as if he thinks she might say no. What kind of a guest would she be to decline a feast thrown in her honor? 

“Of course.” She tries not to let the disappointment show on her face. 

He closes the distance between them then and places a brief - too brief in her opinion - kiss on her lips before leaving her to herself. 

Just as she expected, the furs are warm and inviting and she falls into a dreamless sleep almost the same instant her head rests upon the soft surface. 

Missandei is the one to wake her hours later. The sky is dark outside and the wind howls. She draws the furs closer to her body for a minute before accepting defeat. She shivers as soon as her feet hit the cool floor. It really is much colder up here in the North. 

Her friend makes quick work of helping her into her dress, shielding her from the chill in the air. 

“What do you think of the North?” she asks. Missandei gives her a smile. 

“It’s quite colder than the South, Your Grace,” she responds. It’s the obvious answer but it doesn’t really satisfy her. 

“Yes, but what do you think of it?” she presses. 

The other woman takes a second to think before speaking, “It’s beautiful. There’s so much snow. It’s strange.” 

“It is quite strange, isn’t it? It looks so soft, almost like cotton, yet it’s so cold to the touch.” 

The two friends share a smile as Missandei works on her hair. 

“Have you settled in well here?” Daenerys continues. 

“I have, Your Grace. They have all been very kind.” 

“Good.” 

Jon waits for her outside the Great Hall, holding out his arm to escort her to her seat of honor. She notices the knowing look Missandei casts her from the corner of her eye, but doesn’t humor her. 

The Northern Lords and Ladies stand as they enter, although she is certain the respect is not meant to be paid to her, but rather their chosen king. They do after all not know her apart from the stories of her father. To them she is the last remaining daughter of the family that killed many of their fellow Northmen, most notably Jon’s own uncle and grandfather. 

The two seats in the middle of the high table are empty and next to them sit Lady Sansa and Lady Arya. She acknowledges them with a nod and a smile. On the other side is another boy. He looks about the same age as Arya, and from the special chair he sits in, she knows this must be Jon’s remaining brother, Brandon Stark. 

“Lord Stark,” she greets him. 

He shakes his head the slightest, “I am not Lord Stark, my sister is the Lady of Winterfell,” he tells her. 

“Of course.” She isn’t quite sure what else to say. There is something about him that seems off, but she doesn’t get the chance to linger on it as Jon leads her to her chair.


	5. The Wall has Fallen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in uploading this but because of my exam I didn't have the time to write as I thought I would, but I passed and I finally finished this chapter. I hope you enjoy it.

The Great Hall is filled with people, all the Northern Lords and Ladies together to discuss strategy now that Jon has returned. Multiple voices speaking over one another makes it almost impossible to hear anything in particular. 

They are still waiting for Jon who she spotted talking to Bran before she walked into the meeting. They’d all quieted for a moment, staring at her before she took her seat next to Lady Sansa. The younger woman had wished her a good morning with a friendly smile. She still isn’t entirely sure what to make of the Lady of Winterfell, but at least she doesn’t seem to despise her very presence as many of the other northerners undoubtedly did. 

Finally, Jon walked through the door, followed by a plump, for a lack of a better word, man pushing his brother in his special chair. The King wore a grave look on his face and a dread filled her instantly. What had happened? Jon had told her of Bran’s visions, had he seen something? 

The Northern Lords silenced upon his entry. Instead of sitting next to her, he stood in front of the table, facing his bannermen with his back to her. 

“The wall has fallen,” he finally says and the silence is deafening. She feels chilled to the bone, knowing what comes next. “The army of the dead is marching for Last Hearth as we speak. It may already be too late to send a raven to warn them.” 

Eventually one lord speaks up. “How did they breach the wall?” 

Jon doesn’t answer for a moment and then he turns his head and his eyes meet hers. There’s an apology there, sadness, and she braces herself for his words. 

“They raised a dragon from the dead.” 

Her heart seems to skip a beat and then it’s in her throat beating harder and faster, choking her. She wants to cry but she only feels anger. A deep, burning anger coursing through her. They took her dragon from her, they took her child. How dare they use him to fight for them? 

Her eyes are steel and she refuses to show her pain, her weakness to the lords.

She can’t seem to focus on what Jon and the lords say for the rest of the meeting, only the basics. They need to brace themselves. The army of the dead will be upon them in a matter of weeks, if not less. 

She leaves the meeting with brisk steps, wanting to get as far away from the watchful eyes of the Northerners as she can. Tears burn in her eyes threatening to fall, but she wills herself to be strong until she can lock herself in her chamber. 

Soft pads on the floorboards follow her and she turns to stare into the deep red eyes of Jon’s large direwolf. Ghost. Jon had told her stories about the wolf, but nothing could prepare her for actually standing opposite the animal. He was almost the same size as her, a majestic creature, and she has the sense to think she probably should have been more afraid than she is. He doesn’t snarl at her, doesn’t show any sign he’s going to attack her, so she carefully reaches out and touches his face. He leans into the touch, almost purring in response. 

The wolf takes another step closer to her and his snout touches her stomach, sniffing her and it tickles through her dress. She gives a small laugh and runs her hands through his fur. 

“I’ve never seen him like that with anyone else,” a voice tells her and it startles her. She looks up to find Jon studying her, a puzzled look on his face. 

“He’s beautiful,” she comments, still petting the direwolf.

He smiles back at her for a moment and then it falters. 

“I’m sorry about your dragon.” 

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “We will defeat the Night King. I will not let my dragon’s death go unavenged.” 

Jon nods, understanding her anger. “Aye, we will.” 

Brandon Stark’s voice calls out and tears their eyes apart, “Jon, can I speak with you?” 

The Northern King looks to her, his gaze asking her if she will be alright. Her pain is still sharp, cutting into her heart, into the empty space Viserion left behind when he died. Having Jon by her side soothes the pain a little, but she knows she needs to be with her two other children, so she nods. 

As Jon walks away from her, Ghost seems to hesitate for a moment at her side before following his master. 

…

He looks back over his shoulder to watch her walk away. His heart feels heavy seeing the grief etched so deeply into her eyes. He finds himself wishing he could take her pain away, take it on himself so that she would not have to bear it. 

You know nothing, Jon Snow. 

Perhaps there is much he does not know, but one thing he does know with certainty is that he would give his life so that she would never have to know this dreadful grief ever again. 

“You love her,” Bran notes as the door closes behind them and they are alone in his chambers.   
He isn’t sure how to reply to the statement. It’s not the truth behind the words he doubts, but an admittance of love, between a Northern King and a Southern Queen no less, is a dangerous business. Daenerys still hasn’t earned the trust of the Northern lords and they are running out of time. It’s a matter of a few short weeks before the Night King and his army will be upon them.   

“I do.” 

A frown is embedded into Bran’s forehead as he studies the other man. 

“And she loves you,” he continues. Jon doesn’t reply. He can’t speak for the Queen and what feelings she might hold for him, but even as they have been left unspoken, the words ring true to him. It’s in her eyes when he holds her at night as their naked bodies lie entangled under the fur. 

“There is something you must know.” 

Jon feels uneasy as he waits for his younger brother to speak. What has he seen? 

“What is it, Bran?” 

“It’s the truth about your parents.” 

His hope of ever finding out who his mother was died with his father and he had come to accept that he would never know. 

“Father brought you here, saying you were his son, but it was lie. He was trying to protect you from the harm that would follow you if people knew of your true parentage.” 

Jon’s brows furrow in perplexity. He doesn’t understand what it means. 

“You are the trueborn son of my Aunt Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar. Your real name is Aegon Targaryen and you’re the true heir to the Iron Throne, not Daenerys.” 

His heart is beating hard and fast and his head is pounding. 

“I saw it all, your parents’ secret marriage and your mother asking my father to keep you safe as she died.” 

The walls are closing in on him and he can’t breathe. The air is thick and the urge to flee is overpowering all other senses. 

This cannot be true. He’s a Stark. He’s a bastard. He can’t be Lyanna and Rhaegar’s son, it doesn’t make sense.


	6. The Godswoods

The air is biting cold, stinging the exposed skin of his face as he stomps his way across the old castle’s courtyard. He keeps his head down, and if anyone wonders about his sudden aggravated demeanor, they don’t confront him about it. 

He doesn’t know exactly where he is headed until he finds himself in the godswood. The old trees move with the howling wind and the snow falls lightly, coating everything in sight. His feet lead him to the ancient weirwood tree in the center, and finally his legs give in. The carved face of the heart tree seems to watch him carefully as he kneels in front of it. It shares his feelings of melancholy as the eyes bleeds red sap. 

The place makes him think of his father. Ned. Not his father, as it turns out. Ned would spend many quiet hours out here, pondering over things he did or decisions he had to make as Lord of Winterfell. It was a place one could find comfort amongst the old gods and nature. 

Despite everything, it still does bring him a little comfort now. 

Could Bran really be telling the truth? Could he be Rhaegar and Lyanna’s son? 

Bran has no reason to lie, he knows this, and yet he wishes this time that he had. He wishes he could go back to not knowing. 

His mind is reeling and he doesn’t know what to make of the jumble of thoughts. 

What does this make him? All that he thought he knew was a lie. He realizes that his father - no Ned - lied to protect him and yet it feels like a betrayal. He knows Ned had little choice and had he not told everyone that Jon was his son, he would likely have been killed before he could even walk. His real name alone would have been a threat hanging over his head all his life.  

He wonders, for what must be the millionth time in his life what his mother was like. Finally, he can put a name and a face to the mystery. Lyanna Stark. All the stories Robert Baratheon said about her and Rhaegar, they were lies. He hears Bran’s words in his head - they loved each other and they loved you. 

All his life he was reminded everywhere he went that he was bastard. His last name was a branding, reminding him and everyone else that he was a mistake. He was the product of a union that wasn’t meant to be. He was the evidence of his father’s infidelity. It’s why Lady Stark always hated him. 

But that isn’t true anymore, is it? He was never a bastard. He was never Ned’s son, he was the son of the Targaryen Prince and the woman he always knew as his aunt. 

Rubbing his temples, he tries to soothe the pounding ache in his head. He closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of his breathing mixed with the wind. And then there’s another sound. 

He hears footsteps in the snow as whoever gets closer. He doesn’t look up to see who it is. the footsteps are light and graceful, and he can make a guess. 

She stops a few yards away, carefully watching, as if hesitant to disrupt him.

“Jon?” she finally calls, her voice almost small.  

“He isn’t actually my father.” he tells her, finally opening his eyes, and somehow it feels more real to say the words. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. 

She doesn’t reply, and he thinks she most likely doesn’t know how to. He doesn’t blame her. What are you supposed to say to that? 

She takes another few steps and sits on the log beside him, careful not to sit too close. He finally meets her eyes and the worry in them and the confused frown on her face nearly makes him want to laugh. Nearly. 

“Who?” she finally asks, when he doesn’t continue. He doesn’t know if he should tell her. This doesn’t just affect him, it affects her too. She’s not the only Targaryen left anymore. 

“Ned. I’m not his son.” 

She searches his eyes as if they will tell her the answers to her burning questions. He looks away.  

“Bran saw it. He saw who my parents were.” 

The puzzled expression on her face is still there. 

“Bran… your brother? How could he have? He wasn’t alive then…”

“He has visions. He calls himself the three-eyed-raven. He saw them in the past. He was there when my mother died.” 

“Your mother?” 

He breathes deeply before he answers. 

“Lyanna Stark. I thought she was my aunt.” 

Her expression changes then, as realization finally dawns on her. 

“Lyanna Stark… but, Jon, does that mean…”

“Rhaegar’s my father, Dany, that’s what it means.” He feels bad for snapping at her, but it’s all too much to comprehend. 

“You’re a Targaryen too…” she whispers. He doesn’t want to look at her. Too afraid to see what her reaction is. 

This means they’re family. 

“Aye,” he simply responds. 

“All this time, I thought I was the only one…” she trails off, and he isn’t entirely sure she’s even talking to him anymore. He doesn’t answer her. 

They’re both quiet for the longest time, the howling of the wind in the trees the only sound around them. 

“He said they were married, that they loved each other,” he finally continues. 

There’s another silent pause as the meaning of his words no doubt makes themselves clear to her. 

“You’re the heir to the iron throne. Not me.” There’s something in her voice that he can’t quite place but nevertheless, it’s not a tone he likes. 

“I don’t want the Iron Throne, it’s yours,” he quickly tells her, finally looking at her. 

“But Jon-” 

He won’t let her finish that sentence. Line of succession be damned, he never did anything to deserve the throne. She fought tooth and nail and went through a hell he can’t and won’t even imagine, to get to where she is. 

“I never wanted to be King in the North, I don’t want to be King of the Seven Kingdoms. We both know that you’re the true queen.” 

She doesn’t respond and he wishes he could read her thoughts. The silence is uncomfortable and it’s a new feeling to him in her presence. 

“I was never Ned’s son,” the words leave a painful ache in his chest as the truth of them sets in. “It was all a lie.” 

Her hand slips into his, squeezing his fingers gently, making him face her. He wants to rip his hand away and cling to hers and never let go at the same time. His feelings are battling inside him for dominance and he doesn’t know which is winning. 

She is his aunt and he shouldn’t even entertain the thought of being with her now that he knows, and yet the love he has for her isn’t lessened by the news. 

“We both know that isn’t true, Jon.” She pauses for a moment and places her free hand on his cheek. “Ned loved you, as he loved all his other children. You told me that. He was more a father to you than my brother ever was.” 

She sounds so confident, he wants to believe what she’s saying, but for now, the pain is just too fresh. 

“He made you the man that you are. You’re honorable and true to your word. You’re a better man than any of us deserves,” she takes a breath, “Me especially.” 

She has a small smile on her face as her thumb softly strokes his cheek. He knows what she says is true, but he can’t make the pain in his heart stop.  

“You’re my father’s sister. My aunt.” 

Her hand slips from him as if burned. 

“I am.” Her eyes seem to be searching his, trying to decipher how he feels. “But Jon, you’re the man I love, and this doesn’t change that.” 

“How can it not?” This should change everything. 

Suddenly she stands, her arms wrapped around her chest, and she looks impossibly smaller. Hurt flashes in her eyes and he wishes he could soothe her, but he’s hurting too. 

A sigh falls from her lips and she turns to walk away. 

“Dany…” 

She stops and faces him. There’s a hope in her eyes and he should ask her to stay, wants to, but those aren’t the words that comes out. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He watches her walk away with a heavy heart.


	7. Fall of Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, my life has been really busy this past week and I barely had any time to sit down and write. I really like how this chapter turned out, and I hope you do too.

Drogon’s massive wings flaps thunderously, drifting high above the clouds. The cold wind hits her face harshly, blowing her hair behind her as she clings unto the horns on his back. The sky is a dark grey and they’re much too high in the air. She can’t tell where they are going, her sense of direction completely useless up here. 

She tells him to go lower in high valyrian and he obeys her command easily. The clouds disappear and she can see the wide plain expanse of the north below them.

She notes how beautiful the land is, peaceful. the snow lies undisturbed and the trees are taller than castle towers here. 

She feels liberated. 

Up here with Drogon she doesn’t think about the Night King or his army of dead men, she doesn’t think about Cersei Lannister. She doesn’t even think about Jon. It’s just her and her dragon child and she feels like she can breathe for the first time in a long time. 

Drogon sees them first, a screech leaving his throat, catching her attention. Her eyes can’t see as well as his trained ones can, so it takes a moment, and then finally she sees them too. 

Ahead of them, a large shadow moving faster than even Drogon, flies toward them. Her heart is in her throat as they draw closer to each other. 

There are holes in his cream and gold colored wings and his eyes are a deep blue matching the ones of his new rider, but it’s still him, it’s still her child. Viserion. 

Where there is a certain grace about the way Drogon carries them through the air, Viserion’s is less so. He’s faster than she’s ever seen him, no doubt through the magic of the white walker riding him. 

The shrieks of the dragons mix, filling the air until it’s deafening, as they fly ever closer. They will collide if one of them don’t yield soon, she thinks. 

Finally, Drogon drops lower, carrying them out of Viserion’s way. With a glance over her shoulder, she watches as her lost dragon makes a swift turn and follows her, on the command of his rider. 

She pushes Drogon to fly faster, and yet she knows it won’t be enough. Viserion’s too quick even for Drogon. 

She’s not sure how long or how far they go, but suddenly the dragons are side by side and her gaze meet the cold cerulean eyes of the Night King. They’re terrifying and yet she can’t look away.  
A fire burns inside her, an anger she can’t and won’t let go of. This… creature killed her child. She hopes that’s what he sees when he watches her purple eyes stare. 

And then he breaks away, soaring higher and she tries to keep her eyes locked to him, but as he disappears through the thick layer of clouds overhead, she feels a sense of dread.  
Drogon shrieks in her ear and she tells him to fly lower. 

She watches the sky, searching for the dragon but for the longest time she doesn’t see anything. Apart from Drogon’s screeches and the howl of the wind, the world has gone eerily quiet again. 

It happens so quickly. Viserion drops from the clouds, out of nowhere right in front of them, and she only has a quick moment to look into his eyes before the fire consumes her. 

The color of the flame matches his eyes, there’s a sea of blue dancing around her and it’s all she can see. Even this flame doesn’t harm her, but Drogon screams loudly, blinded by the fire as she is. 

He thrashes violently, trying to escape, and she finds she can’t hold on. 

She’s flung from the dragon and then she’s falling. Her arms reach out for Drogon, but he’s still blinded and he can’t save her now. No one can. 

Her eyes fly open with a start and the wind feels as though it’s been knocked out her chest. She’s gasping for air and her stomach churns violently. 

The chamber pot is by her bed and she quickly throws off her furs to kneel in front of it. The contents of her stomach leave a foul taste in her mouth as it lands in the porcelain bowl. 

She heaves painfully and it feels as though her head is being split open. 

Finally, when she’s done, she weakly climbs back into bed, burying herself in the furs as her whole body shivers. She feels chilled to the bone, the image of her poor Viserion burned into her mind when she closes her eyes.

When she opens her eyes again, she’s met with the sight of Missandei, looking at her with a frown etched into her brow. 

“My Queen, are you quite well?” she asks. 

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” she lies, despite the churning in her belly and the slight ache in her head. She must be strong for her people. _A Khal who cannot ride cannot rule_. The Dothraki people follow her for her strength; being ill is not something she can afford. 

She removes the furs but as she sits up, she feels lightheaded and faint. It will pass, she tells herself, she will just have to fight through it. Her stomach churns violently and her entire body shivers as she breathes deeply. 

And finally, she loses the battle and she’s thankful for her friend’s quick reaction as Missandei has the chamber pot under her chin to catch what her body expels through forceful heaves. 

She can’t remember the last time she felt this ill. Even when she carried Rhaego it never got this bad. 

It’s simply the food. It must be. 

“You are not well at all, My Grace,” Missandei speaks as her hand gently rubs her back as while she calms down. 

She doesn’t reply. There is no point in playing strong in front of Missandei. She trusts her friend with her life. She won’t tell anyone about this if she’s asked not to. 

Both are quiet for the longest time, but Missandei’s thoughts are loud, a question clearly burning in her mind. 

“What is it?” Dany asks, her voice leaving her throat rough and dry. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but is it possible that you could be with child?” 

Of course, the thought has crossed her mind as well, however fleetingly. She isn’t ignorant to the similarities between her symptoms and those of pregnancy, but the words of Mirri Maz Durr still ring in her head. It’s not possible. 

“No.” 

“You have changed, My Queen." She hesitates. "Can I ask, when was the last time you had your moon blood?” 

She honestly can’t remember. Was it two moons back? Three? That cannot be right. 

“Do you wish for me to get the Maester?” 

She shakes her head. It won’t matter anyway. Even if she somehow, despite what the witch told her, has conceived a child, they are heading into a war; one where the odds are stacked high against them. If they manage to survive this coming war, it will be a miracle and those do not exactly come in abundance. 

Adding to that, Jon has avoided her ever since he discovered his true paternity. She wants to give him space, but it sends a twinge to her heart at how quick he was to turn away from her. He is hurting, that much she can understand, but it does nothing to stop the longing she feels. 

Perhaps finding out about their familial relation should trouble her more than it does. She isn’t unaware of what people say about her family. _Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin_. 

And yet, her heart doesn’t seem to understand it. There’s still a longing inside her to be closer to him. She wants his strong arms wrapped around her body, feel his skin pressed against hers and feel him inside her, filling her. 

Deep down, she always knew there is no realistic scenario where she and Jon have a happy ending. The long night is coming and it will likely take them all with it. Perhaps that’s why she let it happen. What is the point of denying herself something she deeply wanted when she is bound to die soon anyway? 

And now it has gone so much further past that. He holds her heart and despite everything, she knows that she still holds his. He will find his way back to her, she has to believe that. 

She just hopes they have enough time.


	8. Lone Riders

He leans against the railing, watching his people move below. It’s a strange comfort, he finds, to watch as life goes on, even with the long night looming over them like a dark storm threatening to swallow them whole. 

The castle is bustling with life, men and women preparing for the war even as they don’t understand exactly what is coming. _You have to see them to know. And now I know._ Her voice rings in his head, as clear as if they had just been spoken, despite more than a week apart. 

Simply watching the people, he can almost pretend they aren’t at war, almost pretend that he’s still only a bastard turned king and not a Targaryen prince. Almost. The endless sea of tents outside the castle walls are quick to remind him. Unsullied soldiers and Dothraki horse lords walk amongst the northerners. It’s a strange sight. It’s two vastly different worlds coming into one, eyeing each other with suspicion. 

The northern lords are not silent in their grievances about their new allies. Words such as savages and eunuchs are being thrown around, meant to insult. It does little damage as both sides rarely understand one another. He does not understand what the Dothraki say but he doesn’t have to. They speak the same kind of insults about his people. 

He wonders how they will fare on the battlefield. Having partaken enough battles already to last him a lifetime, with the promise of more to come, he knows how important it is to be able to trust your fellow soldiers. There is little trust, if any, between the northern soldiers and the southern, but even as a king, he has little power to change that. 

Hurried footsteps to his right makes him turn and face the young boy as he tries to catch his breath. A tumble of words pours out but they don’t make much sense. Placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he tells him to breathe.  
“Riders,” the boy finally manages. “Two riders approaching, your grace.” 

The kid runs off and Jon follows easily in long, hurried strides. The scout stops and points over the castle walls, and as the boy said, the silhouette of two men on horseback draws closer. He can’t make out either of their faces, but quickly descends to meet them at the gates. 

His blood runs cold in his veins when the men finally get close enough for him to recognize them. He has only seen them once before, but it has only been a month. In any case, he is not likely to ever forget their faces, after all, the golden locks of one of them is a famous trait known to all in Westeros. 

Many thoughts cross his mind as they get ever closer, until they are just outside the gates. He recalls Cersei’s promise of sending her troops North to fight alongside them, and he sees now that he should have listened to his gut. Like all the words that leave the mad queen’s lips, it was an empty promise. There are no Lannister bannermen to be seen and he knows they are not simply waiting beyond the moors around the castle. And yet, her own brother stands before him now, along with Ser Bronn. He doesn’t know the latter enough to have a clear picture of him, but Tyrion seems to like him. He isn’t sure how to feel about a man whose allegiances shift to whoever pays him the most. 

What are they doing here? Why have they come if not to deliver the Lannister army to their cause? 

Men have gathered around him, watching with distrust as Jaime Lannister and his man dismount their horses. 

“Lord Snow,” the lion says in greeting, eyes locked on his. Jon ignores the lack of respect for his title, having never cared much for such things. In any case, he bent the knee, he’s no longer a king - a fact his fellow northerners are expectedly not content with. Sansa is still very unsure about their new queen, even going as far as saying that he has been seduced. He has tried to explain his decision, how his love for the woman had nothing to do with it. That it was a choice he made only after she had shown him that she is a queen willing to sacrifice herself for her people, that she is every bit the strong queen that her people believe in. 

“Ser Jaime,” he nods his head in response. “Ser Bronn. To what do I owe this honor?” he asks, his voice hard and demanding. He doesn’t trust these men. Too much bad blood has come between the two houses. Ned's blood. Robb's. 

“My sister, she lied. She won’t send troops.” 

“I cannot say that I am surprised. She doesn’t exactly have the reputation for being the most reliable person.”

“No, I suppose she doesn’t.” 

“And yet you’re here. Why?” 

Jaime opens his mouth to speak, but a voice behind him stops him. 

“Jaime?” 

Tyrion stops beside him, studying his brother. 

“Where are the bannermen? The army?” 

“They are not coming,” Jaime Lannister simply says. Maybe he only imagines it, but Jon thinks the man looks almost heavyhearted. Sad. He shakes it off quickly. 

“Ah, so our dear sister goes back on her words once again, what a shock,” Tyrion grumbles with a deep sigh. 

“I came here to warn you. She plans to take back the land the dragon queen stole from her,” Jaime explains at last. 

Jon sends him a pointed glare. He can’t easily distinguish where the Lannister’s allegiances lie. Coming here to warn them tells him that he must have gone against his sister, but he still speaks of Daenerys as if she is the enemy. It leaves an unsettling feeling in his stomach. 

Tyrion only nods, a grave look on his face. It is clear that he does not look forward to relaying this news to the queen. “And you? I imagine our sister did not approve of you coming here.” 

Jaime shakes his head. “No, she did not. But I meant it when I pledged my sword to fight against the army of the dead, and I plan to honor it.” 

There is a beat of silence before he continues. 

“I realize that you have little reason to trust me, but when I saw that dead thing you brought to us, I knew I have to fight. I can’t stand by and let others fight the battle for the living while I hide in King’s Landing like a coward. I have been a coward in the past, but no more.” 

Jon studies the man, the skepticism undoubtedly shared with the other Northmen. He wants to believe Jaime, but if he couldn’t even trust his brothers at the Wall, how can he trust this man who has betrayed his family so many times? 

With all that in mind, the sole fact that the two men travelled for weeks to warn them of Cersei’s plans speaks of some semblance of trustworthiness. What do they have to gain from lying about this? Fighting the White Walkers and the army of the dead is in both their interests. He had seen the genuine look of fear on the Lannister’s face when the Wight ran for his sister. 

In the end, when no immediate conclusion can be reached, Jon makes sure chambers would be prepared for the men to rest in before supper that evening, to which they are of course invited. 

Jon walks off to attend a meeting with his small council. They discuss the progress of preparations, and with bated breaths, they inquire Bran if he has seen something. The boy, who is no longer a boy really, unlike the last time Jon saw him before they were reunited, but has grown into a man, will spend hours, in his chambers or in the godswoods, warging into ravens, scouring the sky. 

Most days there are no news. The army of the dead isn’t moving as quickly as they expected them to; it’s much less difficult to assume the tactics of human generals than dead ones. 

Today, it’s different. Bran wears a solemn expression as soon as Jon enters the room. 

Last Hearth has fallen. 

A chill runs up his spine as his brother turned cousin explains how the dead came quietly in the darkness of the night. The men fought to the best of their ability, but in the end their numbers were insufficient. They did manage to take out quite a few of the wights, enough to make a difference, but the coming battle they would have to face would still not be an easy one. 

They were able to get some people out of the castle before it was too late. Women and children unfit to fight were on carriages heading towards Winterfell. 

Jon keeps a straight face as he inquires his lords of the progress of the preparations, but when the meeting concludes and he is left on his own, he allows the dread to settle in his bones. It will surely be a miracle if they are to make it out of this fight alive.

His thoughts start drifting, thinking about his life, his past mistakes, his inevitable future ones, but thinking about the way he ended things with Daenerys is what brings him the most pain. He has convinced himself that ending their relationship, and whatever it might have led to, is for the best, after all, his father was her brother. 

He imagines a faceless man with Rhaegar’s name and it’s hard to tell whether he would approve or not. He never got the chance to know the man who fathered him or the woman who carried and birthed him, but he wonders what they would think or say if they could see him now. Would they be proud of his accomplishments even when he doesn’t think himself that there is much to be proud of? Would they be happy that he found love, even when he cannot allow himself to let it grow? 

He thinks of her, of her sweet smile and her amethyst eyes, that holds so much fire and pain yet looks at him with such kindness and love. He thinks of her soft, pale skin under his fingers, trailing over her body, leaving shivers in their wake. He thinks of her light pink lips, parted slightly as he touches her body in the places he knows brings her pleasure. He thinks of them pressed against his own, his tongue exploring her mouth as a moan builds in her throat. 

His heart feels heavy as he remembers the pain he caused her when he let her walk away. 

How can he ever think of her as anything other than his love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and lovely comments, it makes me so happy to know what you think. I appreciate every single one of them. 
> 
> I'm so sorry for the delay in uploading this chapter but my laptop got water damaged and I had to start over. I have hope that it won't take me as long to finish the next chapter - I already have parts of it mapped out. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and thanks again for taking the time to read my story.


	9. Heartbroken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that it's been so long since I last updated. I really have no good excuse, only that my life has been quite hectic lately. Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story, and commenting and giving kudos. It means so much to me.

Anger consumes her like fire, burning inside her, threatening to explode, and underneath it, an indescribable pain rips at her heart to the point where she expects that it might actually stop beating. 

Until this very moment, she had been able to somehow rationalize that at least her dragon’s death - her child’s death - hadn’t been for nothing, but now she sees how wrong she was. No longer can she say that. He truly died for nothing. The foolish mission North of the Wall truly amounted to nothing. 

Bringing the wight to Cersei, showing her how very terrifying their true enemy is, did nothing. In the end, all they had was empty promises of a truce and one less dragon to defend themselves with. 

How she loathed to think of her fallen child of another enemy to fight. Having your own child be taken away only to have him turned against you, is there a worse fate? Dany found it hard to imagine one. To have to be the one to take him down a second time because even if Viserion was gone from this world, the Night King still commanded his battered body, using it to his will. 

The sight of him in her dream haunts her in her sleep every night and she feels like she might be slowly going mad. It’s the same scene replayed night after night. His blue fire blinds her and she wakes just as she falls to her certain death. 

There has been truth to her dreams in the past, almost never in the most straightforward of ways, but she has to consider that she might not survive the impending war. 

She has seen too much in her life to really fear death anymore. Death surrounds her. She has caused deaths, taken away lives. 

Rhaego. She caused his death; took it away before he could even take his first breath. It matters not that she did not realize it before it was far too late and the damage had already been done, but he died because of her desperate wish to keep Drogo alive. 

The vision of her first husband as he laid unmoving in the sun will be forever ingrained in her memory. How his face showed no expression and there were no signs of the man he used to be. The man she had grown to love. 

The witch, for all her cruelty, taught her an important lesson. Life is truly worth nothing if there is nothing to live for. Her dragons became her reason to live. They sparked a hope inside her, a fire that had almost burned out. 

And now, there is a new life within her womb, growing stronger by the day, and she knows he too will not live to take a breath. It’s cruel, really, that she is finally given what she hoped most for - a family, a child - and it’s taken away from her before it’s even truly within her grasp. 

Her knees feel weaker suddenly and her legs disappear from under her. Someone, she can’t tell who, catches her and helps her unto a chair. She feels nauseated and lightheaded, her vision swimming, unfocused. 

She trembles and closes her eyes in a desperate attempt to calm herself. A hand touches her arm, soothing her and little by little she is able to breathe easier. 

Her vision clears and her eyes focus on her Hand whose face wears a look of sympathy. 

“Have you told Jon Snow?” Tyrion finally asks.

She is confused and he must realize as much as no words leave her mouth before he nods his head toward her stomach. It’s only now that she realizes that her hand is placed protectively across her middle, and it takes no genius to put two and two together. 

Behind him, Jorah's expression changes from one of confusion to sadness. There's pain in his eyes. She knows how much he loves her. Greyworm stands behind her and she realizes now that it must be him who caught her. She can't see his reaction, but the silent nod that Missandei sends him is enough. 

All of the people closest to her watches her with a look of surprise, and yet no one speaks.

“No.” 

Hopefully Tyrion is the only one smart enough to see it. For now she cannot risk anyone finding out. The understanding they have come to with the Northmen is frail at best as it is; this news will without a doubt destroy it. All focus must be on the war, and they cannot risk getting distracted fighting amongst themselves. Then they are truly lost. 

In truth, she is not entirely sure that she should tell Jon about the child growing within her. Her heart wishes for nothing more than to be in his embrace once more and celebrate this life they created together. She misses him more than she thought she would; perhaps that makes her weak or sentimental. Perhaps it makes her seem more like a love-stricken girl than a reigning queen, but she seems to have little control over it. He’s in her thoughts from the moment she awakes in the morning and he’s often in her last thoughts to cross her mind before she falls asleep at night. 

However much she would love to think that dream could become a reality, she also has to consider that it won’t. Chances are they could all be dead by the end of the week or the next. Maybe that’s why she cannot tell him; if she dies, he will only know of the loss of her life. It would spare him the grief of knowing of the hidden life lost with her. 

“Perhaps you should,” he tells her, at last getting her out of her head. She doesn’t speak, knowing there is more to come. 

“War is a time of hopelessness. The threat of death and injury looms over all of us; we need all the hope we can get. Tell him that you carry his child. Give him something to fight for. A reason to return to you.” 

She does consider that Tyrion might be right, but she is not entirely sure Jon Snow will find the news of her condition particularly motivating. He still hasn’t spoken to her outside of strategy meetings and even then he seems to look at anything other than her. 

She wants to understand him, she really does. Perhaps the Targaryen traditions are too ingrained in her person, perhaps she should feel the same way, but her heart does not listen. 

She has given him space, waited for him to come around, to wrap his head around his new reality, but frankly, she is growing tired of waiting. She hasn’t known Jon for a long time, but it’s clear to her that he closes up when he is upset and after everything that he has been through, it’s only understandable, but she wishes he could open up to her. She wishes he would tell her where his thoughts travel when he stares out ahead, unreachable to the world around him. 

The decision is made before she really realizes it. She won’t let him shut her out any longer. She is weary of watching as he avoids her. If they only have a week left in this world, she refuses to spend any more time apart from him.


End file.
